


fall into your blue

by sunsetozier



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Denscom, M/M, Side Ships Include:, Stanlon - Freeform, a lot of world building for some reason, and whatever audra and patty are, blumdra?, blumips?, eddie is a hockey player, have i mentioned that i love this fic yet, i love this story ok its my baby angel butter muffin, idk but those lesbians, im gonna say three for now but part two might be the final part, it will either be two parts or three parts, mcmarsh, richie is a school paper nerd, richie is also from california, theres a lot here, we’ll see
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 05:39:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18114395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetozier/pseuds/sunsetozier
Summary: eddie kaspbrak is not fragile, richie tozier is not where he belongs, and that is where it all starts.





	fall into your blue

**Author's Note:**

> this will either be two parts or three parts, i’m not sure
> 
> —
> 
> so, last year, i wrote a fic called for blue skies as a birthday present to myself because i wanted to and was like fuck it why not i’m turning eighteen and can do whatever the hell i want (within reason).
> 
> this year, for my nineteenth birthday, i wrote this.
> 
> —
> 
> you can listen to the playlist if you want, but warning: don’t take all the songs on it to heart as, until the fic is complete (which should be very soon), the songs on it are mostly just for a specific vibe that helps me write the fic rather than songs that actually relate to the fic. the songs that are written into the chapters are in order at the beginning of the playlist, though, so it’s not a useless playlist, it’s just still under construction lmao.
> 
> (the link is being stupid for some reason so if it doesn't work then i'm sorry and to try and make it still accessible i put the full link in the end notes to copy and paste if that's what's necessary!!)

_sucked a bye away_

_shot to outer space_

_spent it but_

_i’m not alone_

**_— blu_ ** _by jon bellion_

-

 

            In hindsight, the house hasn’t changed a bit since he visited last Christmas, but it feels different, now that Richie’s actually staying here. There’s no flight back to California in his near future, and the guest room that his mother always sets up for him for the holidays isn’t a guest room anymore. It’s just his, to sleep in and study in and live in for his last year of high school. Richie’s Tozier’s Room of Rock n’ Roll.

            “Do you need anything?” Maggie asks him, and her voice is just as soothing and warm as it’s always been, the same tenderness that’s been there since he was a child, but it sounds a little bit strange. There’s a tension in the air, a tangible heaviness that neither of them want to address but both know will need to be dealt with at some point. Richie knows he’s not going to bring it up, so until she chooses to talk about it, the heaviness will just have to stay. “A shower? Dinner? You know, that Chinese place you love delivers now, if that sounds any good. We can even get extra spring rolls.”

            Richie runs his tongue over the roof of his mouth and shrugs his shoulders, forcing himself not to wince at the slight ache the action causes, knowing that she’ll only fret over him if she finds out that he still kind of hurts all over and will probably feel these small pains for the rest of his life. She’ll find out eventually, he knows, especially since she’s highly educated on these things and will be consulting with whatever doctor he ends up seeing here, but she hadn’t been in the room when the doctor delivered that news back in California, and he’d rather postpone the reaction she’ll have when she’s told about it. “Chinese food sounds good,” he tells her, if only to try and ease the worried crease between her brows. He lifts a hand, gently prods a finger at his still scabbed over lip and clenches his jaw at the way it stings. “I should probably take a shower, too, so I can change all the bandages after flying across the country.”

            Immediately, Maggie nods, her features kind of strained and sad as she takes in his appearance. He’s still not the prettiest sight, but he looks a lot better now than he did two weeks ago, and they both know it. The only visible remnants of what happened are the slightest hints of bruises that are only really noticeable in specific lighting, his still healing busted lip, and a few small cuts on his cheeks, forehead and chin that most likely won’t even scar once they’re gone. Any other signs are either healed away or hidden beneath his clothes. Letting out a sigh, Maggie tears her gaze away from her son, and he sees how her inhale stutters in her chest before she says, “Okay, well, uh- I’ll call in, order our food, and by the time you’re all cleaned up, it should be waiting for you downstairs. And, if you want, we can watch a few movies, too? I don’t know about you, but knowing that all your stuff is getting here in the morning makes me want to be lazy while we still can, ‘cause tomorrow we’ll be doing nothing but unpacking and setting your room up.”

            “That’d be cool,” Richie replies, the ends of his lips twitching up into a small smile. It feels a little tense, but it’s not forced or fabricated in any way, and he really wants to thank her. For being his mother, for being so understanding and gentle, for loving him and taking care of him the best that she can. He doesn’t do that, though, the words getting stuck somewhere on the back of his tongue. Instead, he wordlessly pulls her into a hug, and he may be taller than her, but he still ducks his head and tucks it under her chin, seeking the childish comfort that comes with being held by a parent. For a moment, she hesitates, but then her arms wrap around him, one hand rubbing a soothing circle in the center of his back, the gesture so kind and familiar that it causes his throat to close and his heart to sink in his chest.

            “I’m glad you’re here, Richie,” she tells him then, voice wobbly with tears.

            His sinking heart cracks, just a little bit. “I am, too,” he whispers to her.

            If she can detect the hint of a lie, she doesn’t mention it, only pulling away from the embrace with shimmering eyes and a trembling smile. For a moment, she looks at him again, this time less sad and more grateful, before shaking her head and turning around. He thinks she’s just going to head downstairs without another word, but she stops in the doorway to ask him, “You remember where the towels are?”

            “Hall closet,” he nods. “Next to the special shampoo you always try to make me use.”

            She laughs lightly, shaking her head in amusement. It almost feels normal, the heaviness barely noticeable in the air. “It’s shampoo made for curly hair, Richard. Maybe if you used it your hair wouldn’t be so frizzy all the god damn time.”

            Richie only shrugs, unbothered. “I don’t mind the frizz. It adds character.”

            “You, my eccentric child, don’t need frizz to add character,” she _tsk_ ’s fondly. “You’ve got plenty of character as it is. Using better shampoo would only help make your hair healthier.”

            “If I use the stupid shampoo, will you get orange chicken _and_ sweet and sour chicken?”

            Maggie considers this, tilting her head from side to side and pursing her lips in thought. Then she levels him with a narrow-eyed look, like she’s about to bargain for a million dollars rather than hygiene products. “I’ll get two orders of each and let you pick the first movie if you use the conditioner, too.”

            “Special curly hair conditioner?” Richie questions incredulously. “Do they even make that?”

            “They do,” Maggie quips, a little bit smug but a little more amused. “And I happen to stock up on it whenever it goes on sale, so there’s plenty for both of us curly idiots to use. Now, do we have a deal?”

            Letting out an overdramatic sigh, Richie tips his head back and looks at the ceiling, pretending to weigh his options in his head despite already knowing he’s going to agree. He drags it on, though, if only for the comedic effect, before looking back to his mother and answering, “Fine. We have a deal.” Then, for no reason other than to keep the theatrics going, he holds a hand out expectantly and can’t even try to contain his small grin when she immediately reaches forward to shake it. The action is business-like for a total of five seconds before they both fall into a fit of giggles and snickers.

            Sometimes, Richie forgets just how much he’s like his mom. This moment helps to remind him.

            Maggie is just about to officially head downstairs to order dinner when Richie stops her, and with a sense of gratitude that feels impossible to express, he says, “Thanks, Mom. For, uh… for everything.”

            “Of course,” she tells him, though her eyes shimmer with tears again, her smile becoming watery and uneven. She sniffles once, too stubborn to let herself cry, and firmly states, “It’s what mom’s do.”

 

 

 

 

            According to Bill, Eddie is being ridiculous.

            Which, okay, first of all – that’s not true. Like, _at all._ If anything, Eddie thinks that _Bill_ is the one being ridiculous, and he makes sure to tell him that through an aggravated huff and an overly childish pout. Unfortunately, Bill only laughs, throws an arm over Eddie’s shoulder, and says, “Don’t get p-pissy, Ed. I’m doing you a fuh-favor. You’d just r-regret it if you sk-skipped out on this and you nuh-know it.”

            “I could be practicing right now,” Eddie tells him, choosing to ignore the fact that he’s only an octave or two away from sounding like a whining toddler. To be honest, he wouldn’t be against throwing a tantrum if it means Bill letting him go back to the rink, but that’d be more trouble than it’s worth, so he opts against it and instead continues with, “My entire academic future relies on me being at peak performance, Bill! Don’t you get that? I shouldn’t be out here, wasting my time with stupid high school traditions that I won’t care about in ten years—”

            “B-Bullshit,” Bill interrupts with a scoff, withdrawing his arm from Eddie’s shoulders in order to grab him by the wrist and bring the two of them to a stop. With a little sigh, Eddie faces him, meeting his gaze dead on and crossing his arms over his chest, brows raised in a silent gesture to urge Bill to go on. After a moment, he does, saying, “We’ve been druh-dreaming about doing this since kindergarten, okay? And I guh-get how important practicing is to you, buh-but you’ve been pr-practicing all summer! The season doesn’t even stuh-start until November, and you’ve spent all your t-t-time in that duh-damn rink since Juh-June. I uh-understuh-stand, but you can spare one nuh-night having fuh-fun with your best fruh-friend. Especially since sch-school starts back up in tuh-two weeks, and with that and practice, I’ll only get to see you at my h-house and at your guh-guh-games.”

            As much as Eddie wants to argue against that, to tell Bill it isn’t true and that he’ll always make time for them to hang out, he knows that he can’t. It’s their senior year, college application due dates are only a few months away, and both of them are going to be insanely invested in maintaining their grades as well as their extracurricular activities. Lord fucking knows that Bill will be spending ninety percent of his free time holed up in the yearbook room working on the school newspaper and typing up his application essays like a fucking champ, so it’s not like Bill’s actually angry about the whole ordeal. It’s an unfortunate situation that’s pretty much impossible to avoid. And Bill’s right – most traditions are pretty stupid in this town, but this is one that he’s actually been looking forward to since he first heard the big kids talking about it back in elementary school. So, he doesn’t fight Bill on this, doesn’t do anything other than release another sigh – this one louder, more dramatic – and spin on his heel to start marching down the sidewalk again.

            Behind him, Bill lets out a victorious sort of noise, jogging to catch up with Eddie in order to ruffle his hair affectionately and place his arm around his shoulders again. “Thuh-There’s the Eddie I nuh-know and love!” Eddie rolls his eyes, but can’t hold back the little laugh that bubbles up from the back of his throat as Bill starts to pick up their pace, going from a relaxed walk to something more brisk. “Let’s get to it, then! Wuh-We’re gonna be luh-late!”

            “Pretty sure we won’t be late as long as we’re in and out before the sun comes up,” Eddie tells him, though he obliges and speeds up to a light jog, taking the next corner and snorting loudly when Bill almost slips off the curb and has to stumble and flail in order to stay upright. He’s just parting his lips to say something along the lines of _nice job, idiot,_ when his eyes land on one of the houses ahead. Reaching out to tug Bill to a stop, he points at the house and says, “Hey, look. Nurse Tozier’s back.”

            “What?” Bill follows his finger, understanding dawning on his features when he sees where Eddie’s pointing, then nods with a hum. “Oh, cool. Wuh-Wish she was here when I went in to get my fuh-fucking flu shot last week. The other nuh-nurses are evil, I swuh-swear to god. The one that gave me my shuh-shot gluh-glared at me the entire fucking tuh-time.”

            Eddie huffs out a laugh, nodding in agreement – he knows very well that Maggie Tozier is the only kind- hearted nurse at the hospital on the outskirts of town, due to how often his mother dragged him over there when he was in middle school. Bill starts walking again, but Eddie stays in place, fixating on the second car parked in the Tozier driveway. He’s walked past this house plenty of times, and the only time Maggie doesn’t seem to be home alone is during the holidays, when she has family visit her. More curious than he should be, he catches up to Bill and asks, “Does anyone know where she went, do you know? I mean, both of your parents work at the hospital. Have they said anything?”

            But Bill just shrugs, giving Eddie a half-amused, half-wary look. “Muh-My parents and I duh-don’t really talk or get along, Ed. Wuh-Why would they tell me about one of their cuh-co-workers?”

            Exhaling slowly, Eddie glances over his shoulder, looking at that second car again. “Fair enough. I’m just curious, I guess. She’s been my favorite nurse since I was a kid, and that’s the first time she’s ever just… vanished like that. And wherever she went, it looks like she brought someone back with her.”

            “She has a suh-son,” Bill supplies then, only semi-interested as he leads them around the last corner towards the school, the Tozier house disappearing behind them. “I muh-met him once, when the huh-hospital had a Chruh-Christmas staff party, like, ten years ago, and my fuh-folks brought me and Guh-Georgie along. Muh-Maybe he moved out fruh-from his dad’s place and is stuh-staying with her.”

            Eddie hums thoughtfully, musing, “Maybe,” under his breath as they cross the street and bound up the front steps to the school. The door is propped open with a rock, thanks to the principal’s daughter being in their class, which makes this entire thing a lot easier for them to manage to do. Not that they’d get in trouble if they were caught – this has been a tradition for decades, most of their parents having partaken in it when they went to school here. If anything, all the adults in town are likely averting their eyes the other way intentionally tonight, knowing what their kids are up to and not wanting to interfere.

            “I’m suh-signing my name on top of Huh-Henry Bowers,” Bill tells him giddily, his grin wide and toothy and excited as they make their way inside, finding a majority of the senior class heading towards the cafeteria and chatting to one another idly. Eddie laughs, shoving his curiosity about Maggie Tozier and her mystery guest away in order to focus on the here and now.

            Sporting a smug little smile, Eddie responds, “I’m signing mine over Belch _and_ Victor. Gonna write it real big so no one can read what’s underneath, too. Erase those assholes from this town for good.”

            Bill’s grin widens, just a little bit, and when the rest of the seniors start cheering for a reason they can’t pinpoint, they still cheer along, because this is a defining point for them. Signing their names on the wall of the cafeteria – a wall so littered with signatures that it’s impossible to see the paint beneath it – is a big deal. It means that this is it, their last year. It means that they’re almost done. It means that at this time next year, they’ll be packing up for college or starting at their jobs, or whatever they have planned. They’ll be done with high school. Eddie and Bill will be done with Derry.

            He signs his name with a bubbly sort of elation in his chest, and he looks at his best friend, and he thinks that this year is going to be his best one yet.

 

 

 

 

            Derry High School, as Richie quickly learns, does not have a separate classroom just for the school paper. He’s not too surprised by that, seeing as this place is maybe a quarter of the size of the school he’d been attending in California, but he still feels a little bummed about it when the school counselor sits him down and tells him what he should expect from this place. The good news is that his transcript was sent over without a fuss, and this school actually requires less credits to graduate than his old one, so he only has about three or four classes that he needs to take rather than the ten he would have been taking back home. That means that he only needs to take two this semester, then two next semester, and the rest of his time can be spent at home or doing extracurricular things.

            Which is when he asks about the school newspaper, telling the counselor that he had been a big part of his last school’s paper and would like to be a part of this one, too. She nods along and tells him that he’s more than welcome to join the paper, but that everyone involved in the paper is required to join yearbook, as well, seeing as the two activities share a classroom and it’s just easier to manage them that way. Richie doesn’t know shit about putting together yearbooks, but he figures he can add captions or whatever, and accepts those terms without a fuss.

            Since Richie’s transfer to Derry High was very last minute, they have to build his schedule on the first day, which takes about an hour to do thanks to the complications of weighing in Richie’s (very minor, almost completely healed) injuries and his well-being being made a main concern. He thinks that his mother has something to do with that – Maggie’s a nurse, so of course she’d call the school and let them know exactly what he can and can’t do for at least a month. It’s not like Richie was planning on joining a gym class or a sport in the first place, but he appreciates Maggie’s concern, and it gives him an excuse to be as lazy as he wants to be.

            By the time they have a finalized schedule for him, first period is already over and second period is about ten minutes in. Which isn’t much of an issue, since Richie ends up not having a first period anyway. Second and third are for yearbook and newspaper, then fourth and fifth are calculus and civics, two of the classes that he needs to graduate. Bidding the counselor a farewell (and thanking her extensively for making this process as easy on him as possible), he shoulders his backpack, pretends it doesn’t hurt when he does it, and makes his way into the hall with his schedule in hand, trying to figure out where the fuck he’s supposed to go from here.

            _Room 105,_ he reads off the paper, frowning slightly to himself. _Where the hell is room 105?_

            As it turns out, room 105 is the first classroom on the left side of the front doors, though it takes him a good ten minutes to figure that out, meaning that second period is close to half way over when he finally pushes through the door, everyone inside immediately turning to look at him when he does.

            The first thing he notices is that there’s no teacher in sight – or, at least, none that he can tell. Unless the teacher is young enough to look like a high school student, anyway. The second thing he notices is that there’s only about… five or six people in here, versus the dozens of people that had been working on his school’s paper in California. So, it’s a pretty small department, then. Cool.

            “Um.” Richie shuffles further into the room, letting the door close with a click behind him, then holds his schedule up uselessly. “I’m, uh… I’m here for yearbook? This is the right place, right?”

            “Yeah, you’re in the right place,” a girl to his left says, offering him a kind smile as she gets to her feet and sticks out her hand, hazel eyes inviting and red hair pulled up in a charmingly sloppy bun on the top of her head. “I’m Beverly, Beverly Marsh. What’s your name, new guy?”

            Richie gingerly reaches forward to shake her hand, responding, “Richie. Uh- Richie Tozier.”

            And Beverly smiles a little bit wider. “Tozier? As in Maggie Tozier?” Blinking once, Richie nods, leading Beverly to exclaim, “Dude, I _love_ your mom! She’s the sweetest nurse I have ever met. My Aunt broke her ankle a few years ago, and the people at the desk wouldn’t listen to me when I said she was my legal guardian and wouldn’t let me go back to see her, so Maggie snuck me in.”

            With a little smile, Richie muses, “Yeah, that sounds like something she’d do.” Withdrawing his hand and stuffing it in his back pocket, he glances around the room again, finding that everyone else has already turned back to whatever they were working on, and says, “So, uh- how do things… happen here? I worked on the school paper at my last school, but I don’t know how to do yearbook stuff, and judging by how many people are in here, it’s not a super big set up, so…”

            “Oh, you have no idea,” Beverly snickers, taking a step back and gesturing around the room with a vague sweep of her arm. “This right here is all we’ve got. Six people, seven including you, and three computers that barely work, which is why we usually just bring in our own laptops to get our work done.” Clapping her hands together loud enough for all eyes to turn to her, she says, “How about we start with some introductions, yeah? And then we can figure out how to fit you in and see what you’re good at.”

            “Okay,” Richie agrees quickly, bobbing his head in a nod. “Yeah. That sounds good.”

            Beverly grins. “Let’s get started, then.”

            Thankfully, everyone in the room is kind and welcomes him with open arms. He learns their names first, and then he learns their specific roles and what they do – there’s Beverly, who mostly edits anything written and makes sure final drafts look nice, though she occasionally goes out to get photos when she’s needed, and happily fills in for writing an article or something when necessary. The main writers are Bill Denbrough and Kay McCall, who both shake his hand and offer him kind smiles when he tells them that writing is his strong suit and had been his biggest responsibility in Cali. Stanley Uris focuses on the layout of the paper and the yearbook, though he usually goes with Mike Hanlon – who, Richie discovers, is his boyfriend of about two years – to get pictures taken and lends a hand when he can with the writing and editing. Lastly is one Patty Blum, who does a little bit of everything and says her main responsibility is making sure everything runs smooth and is done in time, as she’s technically the one in charge of both yearbook and the newspaper. Apparently, since it’s such a small group, they technically have an advisor instead of an official teacher, but Mr. Harris trusts them to behave and stays in his classroom across the hall to grade papers and prepare for his other classes.

            All in all, Richie thinks that he’s going to fit right in – especially when he nervously cracks a shitty joke that actually manages to make all of them laugh.

            After all of that is settled, Richie pulls up the PDF’s of his previous work at his old school and shows them what he’s capable of doing – the articles he wrote covering the progress of the sports teams, the full page he made for musical theater his sophomore year to make sure people actually bought tickets and went to see it. He shows them the pictures he took for the paper, the ones he formatted and edited and pieced together by himself, the things he can cover with ease. And he shows them his weaknesses, too, the way he can ramble on a little too long in his articles or accidentally steer too far off topic, but as long as someone else reads through it to clean things up, then he knows he’s capable of being great.

            “It looks like you’re better at this than we are, honestly,” Kay points out after she finishes looking at what he has to offer. “Like, we’re not bad, but you’ve got all of this down. Is journalism something you’re planning on going into after graduation? Because most of these look better than the shit I’ve seen on New York Times. You can seriously go places with this.”

            Richie bites back a giddy grin at that, pride swelling in his chest as he answers, “I think so, yeah. I mean, I didn’t plan on it before, but I joined the newspaper my freshman year just to give me something to do and ended up sticking with it, so… yeah. Thanks.”

            “Your strengths are definitely writing and formatting,” Patty comments, everyone else nodding along in agreement. “We probably do things differently here than you did at your last school, though, so it’d probably be easy to ease you in to our process before giving you bigger assignments. I just don’t know where to start you off, because giving you stupidly small jobs would probably just be super boring.”

            “I don’t mind having small jobs,” Richie tells her with a half-shrug. “You can give me, like, ten small jobs at once, honestly. I’ll even come in during first period if I need to, ‘cause I don’t have a class before this one. Honestly, you can just start me wherever. I’m not gonna be picky or complain.”

            Patty grins at him, looking pleased, then turns around to murmur quietly to the others. If Richie wasn’t fairly confident in his work, he’d feel nervous and scrutinized, knowing that they’re whispering about him, but they’ve already made it clear that they like what he can do, and he knows that he’s pretty good at this shit, so he doesn’t mind too much. He only waits, rocking back and forth on his feet and scanning over the room to pass the time, until they all turn to face him again. Mike is the one to speak next, telling him, “You’re not bad at taking pictures, but we get really picky about photos here, so we’re gonna start you with joining me when I go out to get photography done.”

            Richie nods, satisfied. “Cool. When does that start?”

            “Tuh-Today,” Bill answers, offering Richie a warm smile. “There’s huh-hockey practice after school, and Muh-Mike, Stan and I wuh-were gonna go wuh-watch. Unless you’re buh-busy…?”

            “I’m not busy,” Richie assures, waving a dismissive hand. His mom’s working a late shift to cover for having to fly out to California last minute, and his grandma on his mom’s side was happy to give him his grandfather’s car that’s been sitting in her driveway since he passed away two years ago, so even if he had been told to be home a certain time, it’s not like his mom would find out. Lowering his hand to dangle by his side, he purses his lips in thought, glances between all of them, then asks, “Does that mean there’s an ice rink here that I never knew about? Because I feel like that’d be hard to miss.”

            Stan snickers and crosses his arms over his chest, leaning into Mike’s side absently as he says, “It was funded by the town, like, fifteen years ago or something, because a lot of people wanted to start a hockey team but the closest rink was out by Bangor. I’m not surprised you haven’t noticed it, honestly. It kind of just looks like a shitty gym and the sign isn’t really eye catching, but it’s over on the south side of town. Don’t worry, we can show you where it is. I’ll even give you a ride, if you need it.”

            “Which means _I’ll_ give you a ride, because I’m _his_ ride,” Mike corrects, rolling his eyes.

            “I have a car,” Richie says with another shrug. “I will probably want to follow you, though, just so I don’t get confused and make you guys wait up for me.”

            Before anyone can respond, the bell rings signaling the end of third period – second period had ended in the midst of Richie showing them his past work. Instantly, everyone gets on the move, shuffling around and picking up their bags with heavy sighs. Richie is just about to stop Mike and ask about an official time or something, when Bill settles a hand on his shoulder and tells him, “We’ll wuh-wait for you by the stuh-steps after the fuh-fuh-final bell, okay?”

            Richie nods gratefully, giving Bill a small smile. “Okay. Thanks.”

            “I’ll suh-see you then,” Bill says, squeezing Richie’s shoulder once, the action light and friendly, before letting go and heading towards the door. Before making his way into the hallway, he spins around briefly and adds, “Guh-Good luck with the ruh-rest of your cluh-classes!”

            He disappears in the crowd in the hall before Richie can respond, but Richie doesn’t mind as he shoulders his bag with a wince and pulls out his schedule to see where his next class is. Faintly, he thinks that, while he wishes things hadn’t happened the way they did, he’s pretty grateful for how everything is turning out. Maybe pushing back his grief in order to keep moving forward will continue to pay off.

            Realistically, he knows he won’t be able to maintain this front forever, though. He just hopes that he won’t start to break until he’s behind the security of his bedroom door. Even more than that, he hopes he’ll be able to keep it a secret from the people around him. His mom doesn’t need to deal with anything else, and he refuses to put more weight on her shoulders than he already has.

 

 

 

 

            The air is biting cold, but Eddie doesn’t notice that as he pushes off the ice and propels forward, adjusting his grip quickly as he narrows his eyes and focuses his gaze on the puck. Faintly, he can hear the idle chatter of whoever it is that’s bothered to show up and watch their practice today, but he doesn’t let it distract him, blocks out everything other than himself, the other people on the ice, and the _fucking puck_ that keeps _vanishing_ from his line of sight due to being passed rapidly from one player to another.

            Barreling forward with a clenched jaw and gritted teeth, he manages to intercept the next pass, taking the puck with him and quickly making a turn to head towards the other goal. Over the sound of blood rushing in his ears, he hears Coach shout, “Nice move, Kaspbrak!” and urges himself to move faster, to make this shot. Coach tends to be more willing to offer criticism than praise, and he knows that fucking this up will end with him getting his ear chewed off and an extensive list of things that he needs to work harder on. He’s been working hard, though, has spent nearly every day of the summer in this rink practicing until he bled and cried, and he wants all that work to show.

            Dodging attempts at body checks, he skates forward, picking up speed as he goes, gaze focused on the goal growing closer with every passing second. Deeming himself close enough, he starts to turn his body just slightly, right shoulder angled back, and swings his arms back to—

            Another body collides with his, sending him sprawling across the ice on his hands and knees. He doesn’t even have time to look back and see who managed to take him down before someone’s pulling him to his feet and Coach’s voice is right in his ear, saying, “You _had_ that! If you didn’t get so cocky at the end, you would have seen the hit coming and would have been able to deflect it. You’re smarter than that, Kaspbrak. You can’t risk rookie mistakes like that, and you know it!” He lets out a sigh, then adds, “Take a break, and when I call you back out here, you better have your head screwed on straight, kid.”

            “Sorry, Coach,” Eddie grits out, ripping his arm free of the hand encircling it before kicking off the ice and making his way to the bench. He pulls off his helmet with a little too much aggression as he steps off the ice, and he isn’t surprised to see Bill is already leaning against the wall separating the bench from the bleachers and giving him a pointed look, but he still sighs in annoyance when his eyes land on him. Tossing his helmet and stick to rest on the bench, he frowns at Bill and huffs out, “What?”

            “You’re guh-getting worked up alruh-ready,” Bill says simply, brows twitching together as he scans over Eddie’s hunched over shoulders and clenched jaw. “I’ve only buh-been here for tuh-tuh-two minutes and I can tell huh-how t-tuh-tense you are. What’s that abuh-bout, Ed?”

            Rolling his eyes, Eddie leans back against the wall and responds, “It doesn’t matter.”

            Bill laughs, clearly unconvinced. “Yeah, I’m not buh-buying that. Tuh-Talk to me.”

            Letting out an aggravated sigh, Eddie gives in, kicking at the ground with the tip of his skates as he admits, “My mom’s trying to get me to quit again. Which isn’t new, she does this every single year and it’s not going to work, but she always goes on and on about how I’m _too fragile for this,_ or how I’m going to get myself hurt and she’s gonna have to take care of me, like I’m still a little kid learning to skate or something. It’s fucking annoying. And now I’m so caught up in that shit that I can’t even focus on practice, so I keep fucking up and Coach keeps fucking _yelling at me—”_

            “Ed,” Bill interrupts, bringing a hand down to rest gently on his shoulder. Eddie cuts off with a sharp inhale, then nods his head once to let Bill know that he’s okay. With a soft, somewhat sympathetic smile, Bill tells him, “Yuh-You’re not fragile, and everyone here nuh-knows that you’re the buh-best duh-duh-damn player on this f-fuh-fucking team. If you wuh-want to let your anger out, thuh-then use it to pluh-play better. Duh-Don’t use it as an excuh-cuse for muh-messing up.”

            “Yeah,” Eddie murmurs, scrubbing a hand over his features and letting out a slow breath that helps to ease his heartbeat. Bill knows him better than anyone, knows how his brain tends to function and how he likes to try and place blame where it doesn’t belong. They both know Eddie is more than capable of using his anger to better his playing. Eddie fucking up like that isn’t because he’s distracted or pissed off – it’s because he’s not putting the effort in channeling his anger to the right place. Nodding again, Eddie drops his hand back to his side and offers Bill a tight-lipped smile. “You’re right. Thanks.”

            Bill grins at him and shrugs a shoulder dismissively. “It’s wuh-what I’m here fuh-for.”

            Before Eddie can respond to that, someone from the bleachers calls out, “Hey, Denbrough! Are you gonna help us with these pictures or are you just waiting to chat up your man?”

            Eddie snickers as Bill flushes, throwing a glare over his shoulder at the trio waiting for him – Stan, who had been the one to shout at him, winks in response, while Mike cackles by his side. The third boy, someone that Eddie doesn’t recognize, looks equal parts amused and confused as Stan faces him and murmurs something to him, likely an explanation of what he said. Bill faces Eddie again with a huff, stuffing his hands in his front pockets bashfully, but doesn’t get the chance to speak before Eddie is teasingly assuring him, “Don’t worry, Ben’s still in the locker room, so he didn’t hear that. Probably.”

            “Oh, fuh-fuck _off,”_ Bill groans, his face heating up even more, though he tries to hide his blush behind his hands. Eddie laughs and reaches over to ruffle his hair, the action fond and affectionate, which helps Bill to relax and huff out a chuckle of his own, though he still looks around for a moment to make sure Ben isn’t nearby before saying, “You’re a duh-dick, Kaspbrak.”

            “You love me,” Eddie shrugs, grinning when Bill silently flips him off. His gaze flickers back to the bleachers, and he considers saying hi – they are Bill’s friends, after all, and Bill has told him on a handful of occasions that he’d get along with them, but he knows ninety percent of the school thinks he’s some asshole that goes around punching people and cares about nothing other than hockey, so it’s hard to believe that the people in yearbook would treat him with the kindness they treat Bill. Stan meets his gaze, though, and he nods once in some kind of greeting, a little smile playing on his lips before turning back to Mike, who’s waving his hands around and talking animatedly to the other guy with them – a guy with glasses that are almost too big, the hint of a bruise on his jaw and a recent looking scar on his lip. Curious, Eddie decides to stop the teasing and change the subject, jutting his chin out and asking, “Who’s that?”

             Bill follows Eddie’s gaze, then turns back around with a little smile and a click of his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Ruh-Remember when I said that Maggie Tuh-Tozier had a son?”

            Eddie blinks, brows raising slightly. “That’s him?”

            “His nuh-name’s Richie,” Bill nods, propping his hip against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest. “He’s juh-joining the newspaper and yuh-yearbuh-book. Seems pruh-pretty cool so far.”

            “So far?” Eddie repeats, tearing his gaze away from the bleachers in order to give Bill an amused look. “I thought you said you met him already. Wouldn’t you already know if he’s cool?”

            “I muh-met him when we were, luh-like, eight,” Bill snorts, shaking his head. “And it’s nuh-not like we were fruh-friends, Ed. We huh-hung out at a stuh-staff party that our puh-parents dragged us to, and then we nuh-never spoke again. I’m pruh-pretty sure he doesn’t even ruh-remember muh-meeting me. Even if he did, tuh-ten years is a luh-long time, so I d-duh-doubt he’s the same kuh-kid I sat next to and shuh-shared a juh-juice box with while our puh-parents were tuh-tuh-talking.”

            As much as Eddie wants to respond to that (though he can’t decide if he’d rather outright laugh at the image of them sharing a juice box or coo at how cute it is), the door separating the bench area from the ice creaks open, and Ben is clambering in on his skates with a wide grin and an excited twinkle in his eye. “Coach wants you back on the ice,” he happily chirps to Eddie, plopping down on the bench and propping his skates up by the heels. Gaze sliding over, his grin widens. “Oh, hey, Bill! I was actually looking for you earlier!”

            Eddie can barely manage to suppress an amused grin at the way Bill’s face lights up, stammering over his words even worse than usual as he greets Ben eagerly. Shaking his head, Eddie decides not to hang around and listen in on their conversation, no matter how tempting that may be. Instead, he scoops up his helmet, grabs his stick, and only spares one glance over his shoulder before getting back on the ice.

 

-

_you got so god damn drunk you couldn’t stand_

_so i had to drive you home_

_you passed out by the first red light_

_so i didn’t know where to go_

**_— fucked up_ ** _by young rising sons_

-

 

            Stanley Uris, Richie believes, has the power to appear and disappear whenever he wants.

            Realistically, he knows this isn’t true, but over the past few weeks that Richie’s known him, Stan has made a habit of showing up by his side in the hallway to start a conversation with him, and to vanish without any warning the second Richie makes the mistake of glancing away from where he’s standing. He’s not sure if he just isn’t observant enough to spot Stan as he comes and goes, or if Stan is just that fast of a walker, but it’s kind of terrifying, in a sense. He doesn’t know how to expect when Stan’s gonna show up, and he never realizes that Stan’s already left until a good minute or two after it’s happened.

            On the fourth Friday of senior year, a full six weeks since Richie moved in with his mom and an entire twenty-something days since school started up, Stan appears again, only this time he appears in the seat next to Richie, who’s working on his first essay in civics, and it scares Richie so bad that he nearly topples out of his chair. Thankfully, he’s able to pinwheel his arms out until he manages to get a grip on the edge of the desk, and Stan’s hand settles on his elbow to help steady him, as well. It still takes a moment for his heart to settle in his chest before he can focus on anything other than the sound of it pounding in his ears, and when he’s able to tune back into reality, Stan is laughing, but he looks a little bit guilty, too. “Sorry,” he says, apparently seeing that Richie is no longer in a daze. He withdraws his hand from Richie’s elbow and grins, though it looks a little sheepish. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

            “’s fine,” Richie murmurs, having to shake his head to really rid himself of the shock. Once he’s fully returned to himself, he lets out a little laugh and adds, “Just had a minor heart attack, but it’s fine.”

            Stan rolls his eyes, but he chuckles and looks pleased by the fact that Richie isn’t actually upset with him for making him jump. Leaning forward, he spins Richie’s laptop around, saves his progress on his assignment, and promptly closes it without offering an explanation as to why. Before Richie can protest, or even question the motives behind the action, Stan is speaking, telling him, “So, it’s the weekend. In approximately—” he looks at his wrist, which is noticeably lacking anything that could possibly tell him the time, “—four and a half hours, school will be out and we’ll be free to spend the next two days however we want to. Do you know what that means?”

            Richie blinks, a little stunned. “Not even a little bit.”

            “It means that there’s a party tonight,” Stan says. “It’s at Greta Bowie’s house. She’s kind of a bitch, but she has a pool and we always manage to get a corner to ourselves and avoid everyone else. If you want to come with us, we’ll pick you up. Ben already volunteered as the designated driver.”

            “Ben?” Richie asks, frowning slightly. “The guy on the hockey team? The one that Bill likes?”

            “That’s the one,” Stan nods, looking a little proud of Richie for remembering. He spins in his chair a bit, props the heel of his shoe on the edge of his seat and rests his chin on his knee to give Richie an expectant look. “If you don’t want to go, that’s fine, too. Like, we’re obviously not gonna make you go to a party. You just seem cool and fit in with us pretty well, and we were hoping to hang out with you outside of school. Not counting going to take those pictures, since that was technically school related."

            For a moment, Richie ponders this, turning the proposition over in his head multiple times and weighing his options in his mind. On one hand, he hasn’t really done much since coming to Derry, has only stayed home, gone to school, and went to whatever check up’s with the doctor that he has scheduled to make sure he isn’t secretly dying. A big part of that is because of the fact that he’s still technically healing up, but he’s pretty certain any real damage has mended itself over the past month and a half, and anything left is just surface stuff that doesn’t do much more than ache like a distant bruise every once and a while. And his shoulder, which still hurts when it’s put under any sort of strain, but the doctor assured him that it’s nothing to worry about and offered to prescribe him some pain medication that’s only a little stronger than the over the counter stuff to help, of which he has stored in his backpack.

            His mom might not be too happy about him going to a party, but she’s been pretty lenient recently, considering the circumstances and everything that’s happened within the past two months. She’s kind of in that one parent mode that all parents have after something bad happens – the whole, _I don’t know how to help so whatever you want to do I’ll let you do because I don’t want to risk saying no and making things worse,_ thing. Which Richie kind of appreciates, because he’d probably be losing his mind if Maggie had gone down the overprotective route, pestering him and overwhelming him, like she had when he was eight-years-old and had a broken wrist while visiting her over the summer.

            Does he really _want_ to go to a party, though? Even if he is mostly healed up and able to get it by his mom, there’s still the fact that he kind of just… doesn’t want to do anything. He kind of just wants to sit down and stay there for a few years. So, maybe he shouldn’t—

            “And,” Stan adds, idly picking at his nails with a shrug, “I know there will be a lot of options for drinks there. If you want to get wasted, you can. If not, there’ll be plenty of soda and shit, too.”

            Richie’s brows raise slightly, and he knows, on some level, that this probably isn’t the healthiest of choices, but that doesn’t stop him from bobbing his head in a nod and decidedly answering, “I’ll go.”

 

 

 

 

            “They don’t huh- _hate_ you.”

            Eddie huffs out a laugh of disbelief, raising his eyes to meet Bill’s gaze in the mirror and shaking his head slightly. “At least try to sound more convincing when you lie to me, Denbrough.”

            “I’m not l-luh-lying!” Bill defends, throwing his hands in the air and then immediately bringing them down to rest on his hips. Unable to help it, Eddie lets out a snort at the sight, rolling his eyes to himself as he turns back to his own reflection to focus on making sure he doesn’t look like a complete disaster. Clearly unimpressed by that reaction, Bill takes a step forward and flicks Eddie on the back of his neck, drawing out a startled yelp from him. Just as Eddie is turning to glare at him, rubbing a hand over the area that had been flicked, Bill insists, “I’m _suh-serious,_ Ed. They don’t hate you!”

            “Oh, really?” Eddie scoffs, not even remotely convinced. “Then why did they ignore you for two months when you joined yearbook freshman year? I’m pretty sure it’s not because you were a shit writer!” He considers flicking Bill in retaliation, but knowing them it’d turn into a full-fledged slap fight, and his mom said that if he wants to stay at Bill’s house tonight, he has to leave before the sun sets, so he doesn’t bother to waste their time like that. The sky is already starting to turn orange, after all.

            For a moment, Bill looks ready to combat Eddie’s words with some incredible statement, a grand kind of exclamation of certainty and truth that’ll wash away everything Eddie thought before, but then he just deflates, averts his gaze to the wall, and softly says, “It was ruh-right after you won that f-fuh-fight against Bowers, okay? They duh-don’t _hate_ you, they just don’t n-nuh- _know_ you, and they just k-kind of assume you’re—”

            “An asshole,” Eddie finishes, sounding unbothered despite the gross feeling that curls in his chest. He still offers Bill a grin, though, and shrugs his shoulders dismissively. “Yeah, that’s what most of the school thinks. Hell, most of the guys on the team think it, too. The only people who don’t think I’m some overly-aggressive piece of shit are you and Ben, and that’s just because I grew up being best friends with you and Ben has a heart of fucking gold.”

            “Ruh-Richie doesn’t think you’re an asshole,” Bill states.

            Eddie snorts, crossing his arms over his chest and rolling his eyes for what feels like the hundredth time in the past hour that they’ve been at his house. “That’s because he’s new and doesn’t even know me yet. I mean, I haven’t met him, haven’t introduced myself to him, nothing. So unless you’ve been talking to him about me, I really doubt he has any kind of opinion about who I am. Point invalid.”

            Bill parts his lips, seals them shut, then meekly says, “Well, he nuh-knows _about_ you. Sort of. I puh-pointed you out when we were t-tuh-taking pictures at that pruh-practice.”

            “Oh, well in that case, your shitty point is now valid,” Eddie tells him with a sickly sweet voice, stepping around Bill to make his way out of the bathroom and across the hall to his room. He can faintly hear the TV blasting from the living room – his mom insists there’s nothing wrong, but her hearing isn’t doing too hot, and he’s been trying to convince her to see a doctor about it. It’s ironic, in a pretty fucking stomach-churning sort of way, how much she avoids the hospital when it’s for her own health, but always tries to drag him there for his health issues that don’t even exist. The thought makes him shiver, so he quickly pushes it away and waits until Bill’s closed his bedroom door before asking, “Why are you even bringing him up, anyway? Dude’s been here for, like, an hour—”

            “Almost two m-muh-months,” Bill corrects. Eddie pretends to not hear him.

            _“—and_ you’ve told me on multiple occasions how fucking weird and closed off he is,” Eddie goes on, pointing a finger at Bill accusingly as he speaks. “Considering the fact that he’s new to Derry and that you know pretty much nothing about him other than his mom- which, by the way, is not a very good argument, because every single person in this good for nothing town knows exactly who Maggie Tozier is- I don’t get why you seem to like him so much.” He lets out a faux gasp of surprise then, bringing his hands up to cover the sides of his face as he leans forward and stage-whispers, “Unless you _like_ him! Why, Billy my boy, has your heart been taken by another? What will Ben think about this?! I mean, surely he won’t be happy to find his not-so-secret admirer has found a new love interest!”

            Sputtering helplessly, Bill swats at Eddie’s wrists until he brings his hands down, letting out a loud _guffaw_ of laughter, and exclaims, “I d-duh-don’t fucking luh-like him, you d-duh-dick! He’s just ruh-really cool, and I j-juh-just think you tuh-tuh-two would get along, okay? You’re b-buh-both—”

            “Wait,” Eddie cuts in, his laughter tapering off and his arms falling completely limp at his sides. Bill snaps his mouth shut and looks at the ceiling with the most child-like face of forced innocence as humanly possible, as if he just got caught stealing a cookie from the cookie jar. Eddie almost chuckles at it, but he doesn’t let himself, because he knows Bill, and he can tell when there’s an ulterior motive behind his actions – especially a poorly concealed one. “Is that why you’re dragging me to this fucking party? To introduce me to your new yearbook buddy? Because last time that happened, there was more tension in the room than there is between you and Ben. Which is a _lot_ , by the way. And not the good tension, either! It was the bad tension! A very different kind than the tension between you and Ben!”

            Instantly, Bill reaches out to shove at Eddie’s shoulder, once again floundering for his words and struggling to settle on a single response, face heating up the specific shade of red that it always turns when someone teases him for his hopeless crush on Ben. Eddie likes to call it ma-Ben-ta, like magenta, but Bill always gets even more flustered when he says that, so he resists the urge and instead waits patiently until Bill gets out, “Pr-Pruh- _Prick._ I juh-just think you t-tuh-two could be good friends! And I think he n-nuh-needs someone like you. You cuh-could be good for each other!”

            Narrowing his eyes into a curious little squint, Eddie asks, “Good how?”

            “I don’t know,” Bill shrugs, frowning slightly and casting his gaze to the left as he considers what he wants to say. “Luh-Like… he wuh-won’t tell anyone abuh-bout his life before muh-moving in with his mom. I d-duh-don’t want to assume shit, but his suh-secrecy and all those b-bruh-bruises and shit that he had when school stuh-started? Seems like he’s been through suh-some shit and won’t tuh-talk about it.”

            “Maybe he just doesn’t _want_ to talk about it,” Eddie points out, quirking a brow. “Some people don’t like spilling their entire backstory to people they just met, you know. Or, maybe it’s just stuff he doesn’t want to share, which is fine. And there’s also the possibility that you’re reading into nothing.”

            With another shrug, Bill agrees, “Yeah, muh-maybe, but even if I am, I stuh-still think you two would get along, and making new fruh-friends is always a g-guh-good thing. So, there. I wuh-win.”

            Eddie rolls his eyes with a grin, grabbing his bag from his bed and shaking his head fondly. “Fine, whatever. You can introduce me to your nerdy yearbook friend. Let’s just get this dumb party over with so we can skip to the part where I have a hangover and eat gummy worms in your basement.”

            “You got it, b-buh-boss,” Bill salutes, returning Eddie’s grin with one of his own before spinning on his heel, leading the way out of the house and to his car parked by the curb outside.

 

 

 

 

            Richie feels kind of shitty, having to lie to his mother’s face when she knocks on his bedroom door to let him know that she’s leaving to cover the night shift. She offers him a smile, the same smile she’s had since he got here, kind of on edge but still loving and genuine, and she asks him, “Are you good for the night? I can order some food if there’s nothing in the kitchen that looks good.”

            “I’m fine, but thanks,” Richie tells her, returning her smile with a grateful one. Then, with an odd bitterness between his teeth and beneath his tongue, he says, “I’m kinda wiped out from homework, to be honest, so I’ll probably just go to bed early or something.”

            “You sure?” Maggie asks, looking nervous about leaving, as if he hasn’t been home alone almost every day for hours at a time because of her bizarre work schedule. Being a nurse is pretty hectic, especially considering she’s one of the few nurses at Derry Hospital that is both good at her job and appealing personality-wise, to coworkers and patients alike.

            He doesn’t know why it aches in his chest, lying like this – he used to sneak out and do dumb shit all the time in California, and even when he got caught, he never felt this sickeningly guilty – but he manages to push it aside and nod once, assuring her, “Yeah, promise. I’ll call you if I need anything.”

            There’s still a moment where she hovers in the doorway, but then she lets out a slow breath and murmurs, “Okay, good. I’ll see you in the morning, then. Get some sleep, okay? I love you.”

            “Love you, too,” he calls after her as she turns around the head down the hall, listening as she trots down the stairs. There’s the jingle of her keys as she scoops them off the coffee table, followed by the front door opening and then promptly clicking shut. He waits a moment longer, until he hears her engine come to life, and even then sits stock still until the sound of it fades down the road.

            Deeming it safe, he pushes his duvet away from where it had been concealing his jean-clad legs and swivels his body around to place his feet on the floor, shoes already on. That guilty feeling curls in his gut uncomfortably, makes him feel sick and unsettled, but he just tries his best to ignore it as he stands up and scurries around his room to make sure he has the bare essentials – his wallet, his phone, and his keys. He won’t be driving, he already knows, but he’ll need to get back inside somehow, and there’s no way in hell he’s just gonna leave the front door unlocked until he gets home.

            Or, rather, gets back _here._ He’s not sure he considers this house a home quite yet.

            Which is… a fairly bittersweet thought that only serves to make that guilt grow heavier. Because he loves his mom, and he’s grateful for being here, and he knows things could be way worse, but he grew up in California and if he had the choice to stay there, then he wouldn’t be in Maine right now.

            Even though the mere idea of stepping foot in California after what happened makes his mouth go dry, but that’s to be expected, isn’t it? Trauma, and all that stupid shit. It’s not really a big deal.

            Thankfully, before Richie can dwell on that train of thought for too long, his phone buzzes in his back pocket and draws his attention out of his head. Pulling the device out, he sees a text from Stan flashing on the screen, telling him that they’re parked outside his house and waiting for him. Responding with a simple little okay, he takes another moment to glance over his room, fingers twitching at his sides as he scrambles for anything else he needs to take with him, before spinning around and making his way down the stairs, making sure to lock the front door on his way out.

            The party is in full swing when Stan excitedly drags him around the side of Greta Bowie’s house, towards the backyard – where, as promised, there is a fairly large pool that has a mixture of concerningly naked as well as fully clothed people swimming around in it. Richie barely has time to glance around in mild surprise before he’s being tugged to the far left corner of the yard, towards the most secluded area of the pool, where Beverly, Kay, and Patty are all sitting on the edge, feet in the water and idly chatting with a fourth girl, Audra Phillips, that Richie has only met in passing the past few weeks. All he knows about her is that she’s a theater kid, she’s been dating Patty since middle school, and she has a really infectious laugh that tends to make everyone around her chuckle along.

            “Slow down, Stanley,” Mike _tsk_ ’s from behind, him and Ben having followed after them in much less of a hurry, clearly not seeing the appeal in weaving through the crowd at high speed like Stan had. Richie tries to offer him an apologetic little smile over his shoulder, but Mike has a fond grin on his face, looking at Stan with a soft gaze and a slight shake of his head, so Richie doesn’t actually feel that bad. Especially when Stan lifts a hand to flip him off and he hears Ben let out a loud laugh, following by Mike snorting and murmur, “Not sure what else I was expecting, to be honest.”

            “Shouldn’t have expected anything else,” Ben quips, though he sounds a little bit shy and hard to hear over the music thundering from the speakers lining the fence surrounding the yard. Richie isn’t sure why – isn’t sure about a lot of things regarding these people that he’s kind of friends with now – but he doesn’t get the chance to question it before Ben is asking, “Is, uh- is Bill gonna be here? Do you know?”

            Richie smiles to himself, just a little bit. He isn’t sure about a lot, but even if Mike and Stan hadn’t told him about Bill’s hopeless little crush, he would have been able to figure that much out by now. And, judging by the way Stan flashes him an amused little grin over his shoulder, it’s pretty clear that the crush is double sided. It’s kind of cute, Richie thinks.

            “It’s your lucky day!” Stan shouts back to Ben, just as they finally reach the corner of the pool that the girls are sitting at and spinning around to point off to his left. “I see a Denbrough coming this way right now. Looks like—”

            Stan cuts off suddenly, his expression going sour and his fingers releasing Richie’s wrist so quickly that Richie nearly flinches as his arm falls to his side, making his shoulder ache in protest. As if sensing the change in demeanor, Mike is instantly stepping around Richie to get to Stan’s side, placing a hand on Stan’s shoulder and following his gaze across the pool. Curious, Richie looks, too, but he can’t seem to locate Bill in the crowd of vaguely familiar faces – faces he only recognizes from passing them in the hallways at school, unable to recall even a single first name besides the people he’s actually been introduced to. Apparently, Mike is able to figure out what has Stan looking so disgruntled, though, as he quickly tells him, “Don’t make a big deal out of this, please? He’s Bill’s best friend, it’s not—”

            “I know,” Stan interrupts, sounding equal parts bitter and resigned. He shakes his head, letting out a long sigh, and then looks at Mike with a strained smile and a half nod. “I’m good.”

            “Oh, I see him!” Ben exclaims, either not noticing the little interaction or choosing to not acknowledge it as he makes his way around Richie and walks away with a little pep in his step. Richie lingers for a moment, glancing around and trying to feel less out of place, before stepping forward with the intentions of sitting next to Beverly and join in whatever conversation she’s having with Kay, Patty and Audra. Before he gets the chance to, however, he feels a hand circle around his forearm and gently spin him around, revealing a grinning Bill Denbrough standing by his side.

            “R-Ruh-Richie!” Bill shouts, a little too loud for their close proximity. It seems he realizes it, too, because his grin instantly lessens to an apologetic little smile, and when he continues talking, it’s in a much more reasonable tone. “Suh-Sorry, I just- I t-tuh-told you about Eddie, right? My buh-best friend?”

            A little confused, Richie flickers his gaze to the left, seeing another boy standing next to Bill with his hands stuffed in his front pockets and a slight sense of discomfort radiating off of him. Vaguely, Richie recognizes him – they’ve passed one another in the hall a few times, usually in the morning when Richie’s going in to the yearbook room early and he’s headed the opposite direction – but he recognizes the name even more, and slowly nods his head in confirmation. “Yeah, uh… you pointed him out, I think. He’s on the hockey team, right? You told me to try and get a few pictures of him because how fast he skates, test out how well I can take action shots or whatever.”

            The guy, Eddie, snorts at that, looking at Bill with a crooked smile and a quirked brow. “Aw, really? Are you always so focused on getting pictures of lil ol’ me, Billy?”

            “Muh-My job as your best friend is making you luh-look good,” Bill says with a shrug, flashing Eddie an amused look as Eddie lets out a scoff of a laugh. Turning back to Richie, Bill waves a hand through the air, almost in a dismissive manner, before using the same hand to gesture to Eddie. “You huh-haven’t officially met yet, so here yuh-you go. Eddie, Richie. Richie, Eh-Eddie. Whatever.”

            “Nice to meet the newest yearbook nerd,” Eddie grins, though his gaze seems a little guarded, even as he sticks out a hand for Richie to shake – which, after only a slight moment of hesitation, he does, returning Eddie’s grin with a slightly more timid one. “Bill seems to think you’re pretty cool, and seeing as he’s practically my brother, I’m gonna have to say I trust his opinion, but who knows? Maybe he’s just an idiot and you’re an asshole. Guess we’ll have to see.”

            Retracting his hand from Eddie’s in order to rub at the back of his neck, Richie brings up a single shoulder in a half-shrug and says, “Yeah, guess so. For what it’s worth, the very few things I’ve heard about you are, uh… well. Exactly what I already said, ‘cause no one has mentioned you other than Bill at the one hockey practice I was taking pictures at, but none of it was bad things, so that’s probably a good sign. I think.” He clicks his tongue, tilts his head from side-to-side, and muses, “Then again, maybe I’m wrong, and maybe _you’re_ the asshole here. Who knows?”

            Eddie snorts, crossing his arms over his chest and casting his eyes towards the pool. “Almost everyone in this shitty town, apparently. Surprised you haven’t heard about it yet.”

            “Ed,” Bill says, almost warily, like some kind of warning or plea.

            “No, he’s right,” Stan cuts in, suddenly appearing by Bill’s side, squinting at Eddie like he’s some sort of animal. Eddie looks away, smile dropping into an instant grimace, as Stan looks at Richie and says, “C’mon, Mike and I are going to get some drinks for everyone and we don’t know what you like.”

            Letting out a slow, strained sigh, Bill gives Stan a pleading look and starts, “Can’t you juh-just ask him what he l-luh-likes instead of—”

            “It’s easier if he comes with us,” Stan interrupts, though there is some bit of guilt in his eyes when he looks back at Bill, like he knows how much Bill doesn’t want him to do this but can’t convince himself not to. Trying for a more genuine smile, he explains, “It really would be, I’m not kidding. Three sets of hands, you know? I would have asked him whether or not Eddie was here, promise.”

            “Doesn’t matter,” Eddie murmurs, and when Richie looks back at him, he doesn’t seem too surprised by the turn of events, only looking a bit tired and put out. That doesn’t stop him from nodding to Richie, though, and telling him, “It was nice to meet you. Even if it was short lived.”

            Unsure of what, exactly, is going on, Richie falters a moment to figure out his response, then carefully says, “I mean, I’m not leaving the party, and I’m guessing you’re not leaving yet, either, so… I dunno. Maybe we can just talk later, or something?” He shrugs, frowning. “If you want. I don’t know.”

            It feels like a pretty human thing to say, a product of basic kindness – no matter whatever tense history is brewing here, there’s no reason for Richie to not make nice with the hockey boy – but the simple statement makes Eddie grin a giddy sort of grin, like a child that’s just been handed a toy or a treat of some sort. “Yeah,” he agrees, bobbing his head in a nod. “Okay. Sure.”

            “Cool,” Richie says, looking over when Stan clears his throat expectantly. Glancing back and forth between him and Eddie, Richie manages to get out a simple, “I’ll, uh- I’ll see you later, then,” before he turns on his heel and follows Stan and Mike through the crowd, towards the sliding glass door that’s leading into the kitchen.

            “Suh-See?” Bill sidles up next to Eddie, only looking slightly dejected by the chain of events, nudging their shoulders together with only a slightly forced shit-eating grin. “He’s super c-cuh-cool.”

            Eddie just shrugs, but he still has an excited little grin on his face. “He seems alright, I guess.” Bill rolls his eyes, parting his lips to offer some kind of response, but gets cut off by Ben making their way over to them, a little wide-eyed and timid – as if he still has any reason to be timid around them, despite Eddie being one of his good friends and Bill being his… more-than-friend friend.

            _Oh,_ Eddie thinks upon seeing the slight flush to Ben’s cheeks. _This is gonna be good._

            “I, uh- I’m sorry if I’m interrupting, but I just—” Ben cuts off, looking up at the sky for a moment before averting his gaze to the ground, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the grass. “I wanted to, um- I was gonna ask this- this stupid question, but decided I probably shouldn’t, but then Beverly, she, uh- she said I should go for it. Which, if this completely falls through, I’m gonna push her in the pool for making me embarrass myself like this, but—”

            “He’ll dance with you,” Eddie interrupts, withdrawing a hand from his pocket to press it against the small of Bill’s back and push him forward, almost sending him stumbling directly into Ben. Bill looks back at him with a mortified expression, but Eddie pretends to not see it as he smiles warmly at Ben – who looks just as pale and shocked as Bill does – and says, “It might not be good dancing, because you’re a designated driver tonight, and as much as he always tells me he’ll drink, he never gets drunk if you’re not drinking ‘cause he doesn’t want to do anything embarrassing in front of you, but he’ll do his weird sober dancing that looks kind of like a dad at a barbeque but still looks kind of good when he does it.”

            “Oh my g-guh- _god,”_ Bill breathes, eyes squeezing shut, a blush rising from the base of his neck.

            Eddie just grins wider and watches as Ben slowly blinks himself out of whatever little daze Eddie’s words had put him in to. It takes him a long moment, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, until he finally manages to hold out a hand with his palm facing up and meekly asks, “Well, I mean, um… will you? Do you… do you want to? Dance with me?”

            “I, uh—” Bill sputters, looking to Eddie with wide, unblinking eyes. All Eddie does is offer a small, encouraging nod, but that seems to be enough to kickstart Bill’s brain into realizing what’s happening – that the boy he’s been crushing on since eight grade is actually asking to dance with him at some shitty high school house party, something he’s been dreaming would happen since they were thirteen and attending gross middle school dances that never played good music and served them juice boxes like they were toddlers. And, suddenly, Bill is _beaming,_ turning around to take Ben’s hand in his and stuttering out, “I w-wuh-would fuh-fucking _love_ to.”

 

 

 

 

            It’s around one in the morning when Bill decides that it’s time to take Richie home.

            The reason is because Richie’s gone from a pleasant sort of tipsy to a blubbering, oversharing yet completely incoherent sort of wasted. At first, it had been kind of fun, watching as Richie fluttered around and looked more alive and energetic than he has since moving here, but then he gets another drink and plops himself down cross-legged by the pool and instantly bursts into tears.

            “I don’t- I still don’t know what you’re saying,” Kay says helplessly, one arm around Richie’s shoulders and the other awkwardly patting him on the top of his head, looking at a wide-eyed Beverly in a silent plea for help. Beverly is also pretty drunk, though, and she thinks it’s absolutely hilarious, even though her sober self would be very much concerned about the state that Richie’s in.

            Richie hiccups, bringing up a hand to wipe at the snot running from his nose. He parts his lips to try again, but all he ends up letting out is a long sigh, his posture slumping as he leans into her side, head lulling over to rest on her shoulder. “’m tired,” he manages to croak out, eyes fluttering shut.

            “Okay, honey,” Kay murmurs, turning her attention away from Beverly in order to seek out a more reliable person who might actually be able to offer some assistance. It takes a few minutes, but she manages to catch Bill’s eye in the crowd, and he manages to notice the distress almost instantly, as he’s immediately pushing his way over.

            As he draws near, he parts his lips to ask what’s wrong, only to stop when he sees Richie leaning against her, tear tracks on his cheeks and nose red from both crying and the chill in the night air. Blinking once in shock, he quickly closes the rest of the space between them and kneels on the ground, placing a hand on Richie’s upper arm and gingerly asking, “Are you okay, R-Ruh-Richie?”

            Forcing his eyes open, Richie’s eyes quickly seek out Bill’s gaze, his lower lip a little wobbly even when he nods and slurs out, “Yeah, m’okay. Jus’ tired.”

            “Are you shuh-sure?” Bill questions warily, looking like he wants to press for more but isn’t sure if he should. He settles on pointing out, “You look like you’re muh-more than tired. It luh-looks like you’ve been c-cruh-crying… a luh-lot.”

            “Only a little,” Richie shrugs, holding up a hand to pinch his thumb and pointer finger together in a half-assed _little bit_ sign. “Drinkin’ was a bad idea. Should’ve known.”

            Even more concerned by that, Bill asks, “Huh-How was it a b-buh-bad idea?”

            “Drunk brain can’t push away bad memories like sober brain can,” is all Richie says.

            Letting out a slow sigh, Bill takes a moment to check the time on his phone, then softly tells him, “Well, it’s luh-late, and if you’re t-tuh-tired… do you wuh-wanna go home?”

            Richie pouts, peeling himself away from Kay’s side and crossing his arms over his chest childishly, but he nods after a second. “Yeah, I guess. Wanna… just wanna sleep. Wanna go to bed.”

            “Okay, come on,” Bill sighs, carefully helping Richie to his feet, keeping a tight grip on his sides when Richie starts to teeter dangerously towards the pool. It’s a bit of a slow process, because Richie’s limbs just don’t seem too keen on cooperating, but they manage to get him up soon enough. “We just gotta fuh-find Eddie, okay? Then you can g-guh-go home.”

            “Woohoo,” Richie cheers, voice a bit deadpan and lacking energy as he waves a single hand half-heartedly through the air in some kind of attempt at celebration.

            Kay gives Bill a grateful smile as he starts to lead Richie away, which he quickly returns with a little nod and a smile of his own. The last thing he sees before they get enveloped into the crowd of people is Kay turning her attention to a highly intoxicated Beverly, who is immediately babbling to her. Bill absently wishes her luck, knowing that Beverly can be a bit difficult to wrangle when drunk, but pushes that thought away as he starts to scan the sea of people, which has only thinned out a little bit with people heading home or opting to go somewhere else. He has one arm wrapped around Richie’s waist to keep him upright, though it seems that Richie is already more stable now that he’s standing than he had been a few moments prior, so it isn’t too difficult to maneuver the two of them through the throngs of drunken high school idiots.

            They find Eddie in the kitchen, sitting on the counter with a drink in his hand and a dazed expression on his face – the number one sign that he’s tipsy, but not yet drunk, Bill is well aware. He spots Bill coming his way before they actually reach him, and he still looks a little dazed, but he smiles and takes a sip of his drink, waiting until they’re within hearing distance before sliding off the counter and saying, “Lemme guess. Time to go?”

            “Gotta tuh-take Richie home,” Bill tells him, glancing over to Richie as he says it, finding that Richie has gone from looking disgruntled to just kind of staring off into space. Eddie follows Bill’s gaze, then frowns, stepping forward and poking at the tear stains on Richie’s face.

            “You were crying,” he states matter-of-factly when Richie blinks once and focuses his eyes on Eddie in mild bewilderment. “It’s a party. You’re not supposed to cry at parties. Parties are fun.”

            Waving a hand dismissively, Richie just murmurs, “Maybe m’not a party person.”

            “Bullshit,” Eddie scoffs, tipping his head back to down the rest of his drink before spinning around and tossing the plastic cup into the trashcan a few feet away. He faces Richie again with his arms crossed over his chest and his usual cocky, shit-for-brains grin that he has when he’s tipsy and feeling too ambitious, too confident and not thinking about the consequences of his actions. Bill lets out a loud sigh, starting to regret his decision of staying sober, and shakes his head solemnly as Eddie cocks his head to the side and says, “Everyone can be a party person so long as they’re partying with people they trust and know their own limits. Either you don’t trust anyone here, or you passed your limit.”

            “Well, maybe it’s both,” Richie shrugs, the action a little sloppy with him still leaning so heavily against Bill. It seems to remind him of who he’s with, though, as he suddenly looks to Bill in confusion and tells him, “Y’know, I thought Ben was taking me home. He’s designated driver, right?” Suddenly, Richie pales, and he pulls back from Bill like he’s been burned, stumbling back into the wall and shaking his head back and forth, eyes wide and terrified. “You can’t take me home,” he slurs out, pressing himself further into the wall when Bill and Eddie both look at him – Eddie, with general confusion, and Bill, with genuine concern. “’s’not safe! Drinking and driving, it… it gets people _killed!_ You can’t—”

            “I’m nuh-not drunk,” Bill tries to reassure him, hands held out in front of him in some kind of surrender as slowly takes a step forward, not wanting to get too close but feeling rightfully worried about the fear-stricken look glimmering in Richie’s eyes.

            Clearly not put to ease by this, Richie shakes his head and hisses, “That’s what everyone says when they shouldn’t be driving, and then they get in an accident and someone dies and you ruin their fucking life and everything goes to shit!”

            Which, Bill thinks, is a rational fear, but also is a little overwhelming to hear when it’s gushed out so quickly like that. “I mean I’m s-suh-sober,” he tries again, crossing his fingers and holding them up higher to make sure Richie can see them. “Nuh-Not a drop of alcohol. Cruh-Cross my heart.” Taking another small, cautious step forward, he adds, “And if yuh-you w-wuh-want Buh-Ben to take you home, thuh-that’s fine, but Ben is also druh-driving Stan and Muh-Mike home, and they duh-don’t usually leave until, like… thruh-three in the morning. I wanna luh-leave anyway, and you wuh-wouldn’t have to wait.”

            Slowly, Richie relaxes, nodding once and squinting at Bill warily. “You’re really sober?”

            “I’d puh-pass a bruh-breathalyzer test with fluh-flying colors if I h-huh-had one.”

            Apparently satisfied, Richie nods again, carefully pushing off the wall, only taking a moment to regain his balance before scrubbing a hand over his features and clearing his throat. “I gotta, uh… I gotta let Stan know, I think. Or… someone. Let someone know I’m leaving with you instead.”

            “I g-guh-got it,” Bill tells him, taking out his phone and sending a text into the group chat that specifically use for parties to keep each other in the loop. He instantly gets a few thumbs up emoji’s in response, followed by Ben typing out a more extensive reply thanking him for letting them know and telling him to drive safe. He’s about to shove his phone back into his pocket so they can head out when it starts to go off in his hand, and he almost declines the call when he sees Stan’s name on screen.

            God, but Stan’s one of his good friends… and he’ll get so pissed if Bill doesn’t answer…

            With a resigned sigh, he picks up the call and brings the phone up to his ear with a, “Hey—”

            “Why’re you tryin’ to take Richie?” Stan asks, words clearly slurred and drawn out. He lets out a hiccup, and Bill can vaguely hear Mike’s voice in the background, but can’t make out what he says as Stan continues with, “I- I know you- you get pissed, yeah? About Eddie, ‘cause we don’t- we don’t wanna be friends with Eddie, but he’s- he- you know? And I- I have my reasons, I do, and I know you get mad but you- you’re really cool about it, usually, and I never thank you for being cool about it, but this is, you know- this is a new guy, and he seems- he seems really cool, right? But I can see it, I can tell that there’s some- there’s damage, he’s been through something, you know? I mean, who just ups and leaves California to move in with the mom they grew up not living with! There’s something, and I’ve been- I keep trying, doing everything I can to make him comfortable, because I think he needs someone, you know? And I have a lot of good friends, and I have Mike, but I don’t have a _best_ friend, and I think he could be- he could be my best friend! But you keep- you keep being you, which is fine, but you’re so nice and caring and that’s why I love being your friend and I’m kind of mean sometimes and it’s like—”

            “Stuh-Stan,” Bill interrupts, casting a quick look over his shoulder to see that Richie and Eddie have started up some kind of conversation in their wait for Bill to get off the phone – he isn’t sure what it’s about, and it’s clear that Eddie’s drunken energy is overpowering Richie’s intoxicated fatigue, if the way that Eddie keeps gesturing excitedly and not noticing when Richie has to duck away from his fast-flying hands is any indication. Deeming them good for the moment, he takes a few steps away to make sure that they can’t hear him before saying, “I’m nuh-not trying to get in the way of you t-tuh-two being fruh-friends. I… I actually thuh-think you’re r-ruh-right. I thuh-think he needs suh-someone, too.”

            There’s a short pause, before, with a lilt of surprise in his voice, Stan asks, “Really?”

            Although he knows that Stan can’t see him, Bill nods, telling him, “Yeah, ruh-really.” He takes a moment to consider his next words, once again looking over to see that Richie has gone from watching Eddie’s fast-paced babbling in confusion to actually listening to him with a slight smile, nodding along and blinking every few moments, when it looks like he’s starting to lose focus on the conversation. Leaning his shoulder against the wall, Bill lets out a slow breath and decidedly says, “I juh-just… I think that, m-muh-maybe, he could use muh-more than just one puh-person, you know?”

            A long moment of silence, followed by: “You mean Eddie, don’t you?”

            “I duh-don’t know. Maybe,” is all Bill says before promptly ending the call.

 

 

 

 

            Richie is half asleep when the car comes to a stop. Forcing his eyes open, he lifts his head and squints out the window, spotting his house a little ways down the street, living room light on and his mom’s car already parked in the driveway. With a heavy sigh, his lets his head fall back against the window with a _thunk_ and murmuring a hoarse little, “Shit.”

            “Wuh-What would you get in bigger truh-trouble for?” Bill asks from the front seat, tapping his fingers nervously against the steering wheel as he looks over his shoulder, where Richie is slumped over in his backseat and looking approximately ten seconds away from either crying, puking, or passing the fuck out. “Cuh-Coming home druh-drunk, or stuh-staying at a friend’s house and forgetting to tell her?”

            “Uh.” Richie considers this, frowning to himself and trying to ignore the way his stomach is clenching. In the passenger’s seat, Eddie has his headphones in and is happily bopping along to whatever song he has blasting, completely unaware of the world around him. After a moment of contemplation, Richie lifts a single shoulder in a shrug and answers, “She doesn’t… get mad at me, not recently, but if I go in there drunk, she… I don’t think she’ll be happy. I think she’ll be pretty…pretty fuckin’ upset. So…”

            Wordlessly, Bill nods, puts the car into drive, and presses on the gas. Richie watches the house go by in disdain, knowing that his mom is going to lose it in the morning, if she hasn’t already discovered that he isn’t home. His car is parked right next to hers, though, and his bedroom light isn’t on, so there’s a slight chance he’ll be able to call her before she realizes he’s gone. Or, even better, he can sneak in while she’s making breakfast and act like he never left.

            Except, he’s going to have a massive hangover, and climbing through his window takes an exceptional amount of arm strength that he doesn’t have, so that’s probably not an option. God, he’s in for some shit when he gets home. He rests his forehead against the cool glass of the window again, lets his eyes squeeze shut as Bill makes the quick trip to his own house a mere five minutes away, and tries to focus solely on the exhaustion coursing through his veins and not the queasiness in his stomach.

            Bill doesn’t say anything when they reach his house, only pats Eddie on the shoulder to alert him of their arrival and turns back around just in time to see Richie fumbling with the door handle, only struggling for a short moment before he’s pushing the door open and practically tumbling out of the car. There’s a short second of concern, but then Richie’s head pops up as he pushes himself to his feet, looking unscathed, so Bill doesn’t worry about it too much.

            “Ow,” is all Richie says, making Bill chuckle. He supposes it must be pretty entertaining to witness, but he landed shoulder-first on the pavement, and now it kind of feels like his shoulder is on fire. It’s a bit numbed out by the alcohol still in his system, though, and the only person who knows about this little injury of his is his mother (who was not happy to find out Richie was trying to keep it hidden from her, but she hadn’t been too surprised by it, either), and he’d rather not have to explain it in a drunken babble, so he just leans against the car for a moment and sucks in a deep breath before stumbling after Bill and Eddie as they make their way to the front door.

            There’s a moment when Bill unlocks the front door where reality seems to warp, the air in Richie’s lungs feeling dust and hard to breath, the ground beneath his feet wobbling unsteadily like it’s made of Jell-O and his head filling with cotton and honey and a little sweet. He takes a step forward and swears his foot is gonna fall through the floor, feels like he’s gonna be sucked in and taken away from here, but there’s just the thud of his heel against the carpet and then there’s an arm around his waist and a muffled voice in his ear pleading, “Don’t puke on me! For the love of god, please don’t puke on me!”

            Fuck, his shoulder hurts.

            “Jesus, you’re heavy,” the same voice huffs, and Richie wonders, briefly, if he really is going to puke, because his stomach is churning and everything is just a little… far away. He blinks, tilts his head back, and sees that the arm around his waist belongs to Eddie, who looks about two seconds away from dropping him to the ground out of fear of a drop of vomit landing on him. Eddie looks over to Bill, who is clearly debating whether to lead Richie to a bedroom or a bathroom, and says, “Why am I the one holding the wasted kid? He’s your nerdy yearbook friend! You should be the one who gets puked on!”

            “Not gonna puke,” Richie manages, though the floor still doesn’t feel really solid beneath him and his surroundings are kind of a blur, so it doesn’t come out sounding very convincing.

            Eddie turns his head around to look at Richie with a doubtful frown. “You’re, like, _literally_ turning green. I thought that only happened in cartoons, but your face is… definitely not a normal color. To be honest, I’m almost convinced we should take you to the hospital.”

            Scrunching up his features in distaste, Richie promptly shakes his head and states, “Nuh uh. Every fuckin’ doctor in that fuckin’ hospital knows my mom’s fuckin’ social security number. As soon as I step in there, my mom’s gonna get a call and know I’m fuckin’ hammered and she’ll think it’s ‘cause of California. She might be right but I don’t want her to fuckin’ look at me like I’m fuckin’ _fallin’ apart—”_

            “Okay,” Bill interrupts, holding up his hands in some kind of surrender, even as his brows furrow together in curiosity at Richie’s words. “Luh-Let’s just… let’s g-guh-get you to buh-bed, yeah? Like you wuh-wanted. Then you can guh-get some rest and I’ll t-tuh-take you home when you wuh-wake up.”

            Richie huffs, but doesn’t argue. “Okay. Yeah. Sure.”

            With a little shimmy to try and adjust his hold on Richie, Eddie looks to Bill with a slight frown and asks, “Where is he gonna sleep?”

            Shrugging, Bill suggests, “Muh-My room?”

            “But I always stay in your room after parties!” Eddie pouts, considers dropping Richie just to clasp his hands in front of him and beg, but instead just shakes his head and kicks out a foot to nudge at Bill’s ankle like a child. “I get he’s this cool dude that you’re friends with an everything, but tradition is tradition! I don’t know how to sleep anywhere else when I’m drunk! Can’t he just take the couch in the basement or something? I mean—” he looks to Richie, who appears to be falling asleep where he’s standing, head lulling slightly onto Eddie’s shoulder, then looks back to Bill with his brows raised in an incredulous manner, “—I really doubt he’ll have any sort of preference.”

            “I’m nuh-not gonna f-fuh-fucking toss him in the buh-basement, Ed,” Bill scoffs, rolling his eyes. Before Eddie can come up with another vague idea of where to deposit the drunken idiot leaning against him, Bill is spinning around and marching towards the stairs with a final, “He’s stuh-staying in my room. If you’re ruh-really so p-puh-picky about where you sluh-sleep, then you can just shuh-share the bed.”

            Eddie stares after Bill with a dropped jaw, which quickly twists into a look of disgust when he feels a wet spot forming on his shirt – a little puddle of drool, he thinks, but he doesn’t look to check, because knowing will only make it worse. Knowing that he won’t be winning this argument, he simply leans his head back, stares at the ceiling for a long moment, and then calls out, “I don’t share beds with people I don’t know!”

            Faintly, coming from what Eddie assumes is the upstairs bathroom, Bill replies, “It’s either sharing the buh-bed or st-stuh-staying in the luh-living room w-wuh-with me.”

            Which Eddie would agree to, but the sofa in Bill’s living room feels like a slab of concrete. Letting out a strained sigh, Eddie grumbles out a few curses and makes his way to the stairs, already knowing that getting up them won’t be easy with the dead weight he’s holding up.

            “I can take the floor,” Richie mumbles, mouth pretty much pressed to Eddie’s shoulder and voice so slurred and sleepy that it’s practically impossible to really hear what he’s saying. “You can have the bed. I don’t care. I just… just wanna sleep. And I can sleep on a floor.”

            God, Eddie’s gonna murder Bill. Not only for giving him this type of ultimatum, but also for being friends with someone who’s clearly too nice to be left on the floor like a bag of garbage. No matter how much Eddie kind of wants him to, because Bill may have a full sized bed, but that’s not big enough for the type of personal space Eddie usually needs to sleep. But, even though the thought is tempting, Eddie already know that seeing this dude wincing from the aches and pains of sleeping on the ground will only make him feel guilty, which is why he just responds, “No, it’s whatever. Just stick to a side, yeah?”

            Richie snorts, the sound so sudden that Eddie nearly loses his footing on the stairs. “’m not good at stickin’ to sides, Eddie. Can’t choose. Never could. Not even…” he trails off with a yawn, then makes no move to finish his sentence.

            “What?” Eddie asks, too curious to let the subject drop, even as they reach the top of the stairs and he guides them into the first room on the left. He carefully sets Richie on the bed and watches as he instantly kicks off his shoes, pushes himself back to the wall, and then promptly falls over and curls into a little ball on top of the duvet. Crossing his arms over his chest with a huff, Eddie tries again, asking, “What does that mean? That makes no sense.”

            Shuffling slightly, Richie squints up at Eddie, nose scrunched and glasses crooked. “Nothing makes sense,” he says matter-of-factly, sounding almost sober when he says it. Eddie parts his lips to respond, then promptly seals them shut as Richie lets his head fall into the cradle of his arms and murmurs, “But maybe that’s a good thing, ‘cause I don’t think I’d like any half-assed attempt at a sensible explanation for the fucked up shit I’ve been through. I’d rather it make no sense and just… let it be.”

            Eddie falters at that, looking over his shoulder and wondering if he should get Bill in here, because he doesn’t know this guy. Sure, Bill doesn’t really know him, either – he’s told Eddie many times that he just wishes that Richie would open up to someone, because it’s obvious that there’s a lot of shit hidden behind his smiles, laughs, and jokes. Assumedly, the only people who know jack shit about Richie can be counted on one hand: Richie himself, and his parents. And, honestly, despite having never officially met the dude until tonight, the amount of vagueness behind him is kind of intriguing.

            He’s just beginning to question the morality of asking Richie personal questions while he’s drunk when he turns back around, and finds that Richie is already dead asleep, glasses even more askew and fogging up slightly from the breath puffing out of his open mouth. Eddie hesitates, but decides his curiosity isn’t worth waking the poor guy up, so he just toes off his shoes, carefully plucks Richie’s glasses off of his face, and then unceremoniously dives under the duvet on the opposite side of the bed from where Richie is sleeping. And he thinks, perhaps a stupidly drunken sort of thought, that he maybe wouldn’t mind having more than two friends when he wakes up in the morning, because maybe, in his stupidly drunken mind, Richie seems like he could be a pretty good friend to have.

 

_-_

_now take me down_

_don’t you let those tears quench the thirsty ground_

_don’t you be so scared that you can’t make a sound_

_make a sound for me_

**_— fans_ ** _by kings of leon_

_-_

 

            The next time Richie and Eddie see each other is the following Thursday, and it’s safe to say that Eddie isn’t really expecting it to happen. Not that he was expecting _anything_ to happen, really, but it does catch him severely off guard when he clambers over to the bench in the middle of practice and hears a sudden, “Hey,” to his left, the voice a bit familiar and somehow both too quiet and too loud for the close proximity, as if the speaker can’t quite decide on their volume and changed their mind halfway through.

            Richie looks much more put together now than he had at the party, not as disheveled and somewhat messy. Instead of rumpled clothes thrown askew but drunkenly stumbling around, he’s dressed in a simple pair of jeans, a zipped up hoodie with red and black stripes, and a beanie that Eddie is fairly certain Bill had been wearing this morning that is doing a poor job at keeping his curls in check. Actually, Eddie is certain that the beanie belongs to Bill, because he vividly remembers stealing it himself once, back when they were fifteen and Eddie was sitting right about here, freezing his ass off in this ice rink and complaining loudly about it to anyone that would listen. Bill had plopped the damn thing on his head with a cheeky little grin, and Eddie has kept it one for the rest of practice despite it making it damn near impossible to squeeze his helmet on, just because he could.

            Though, Eddie has to admit, as much of a pain as it had been wearing a stupid beanie under his gear, the hat is ridiculously soft and really does wonders in maintaining body heat. Considering how thin and lanky Richie is, Eddie can easily envision Bill offering the item of clothing to him in an effort to warm him up from wherever they must be sitting.

            “Um.” Eddie looks over his shoulder, sees that coach is currently reminding one of the freshman who have never played hockey before on the basic dos and don’ts of body checking, and turns back around with a slight smile, figuring that he has a bit of time before he’ll be called back out. He gets to his feet, shuffles over a bit to lean on the opposite side of the little half-wall that Richie is standing by, and then, because he’s unsure of what else to do, offers a weird, half-assed wave of a hand.

            It’s not a real greeting – is, in Eddie’s mind, perhaps the dumbest thing he could have possibly done in this moment – but Richie doesn’t seem bothered by it, lips only twitching up at the action. The lack of judgement in his eyes makes Eddie feel a little bit better, hand falling to his side as Richie clears his throat and says, “So, uh- I meant to actually, like, talk to you, at the party, you know? But, like… sober. Not… a fucking mess, like I was. It just… I dunno, I got very drunk very fast, and then I woke up super early because my mom was blowing up my phone and I ended up leaving while you and Bill were still asleep, and then I was gonna try talking to you at school or some shit, ‘cause you seem cool and Bill clearly thinks we’d get along, but then Stan talked to me about…” Richie trails off, tilts his head from side to side and a so-so manner, then carefully finishes, “About you, I guess, and the reason why most people would probably advise me to… to not be friends with you, you know?”

            Slowly, Eddie nods, sucking his lower lip into his mouth and clamping his teeth down on it, trying not look as frustrated at those words as he feels. It takes him a moment before he can find it in himself to respond, “What did he tell you?”

            “That you used to get in fights with people when you were, like, thirteen,” Richie shrugs. “Doesn’t seem like a reason to not be friends with you now. I mean, what kind of thirteen-year-old isn’t filled with rage?” He waves a hand over his shoulder, the action both dismissive as well as indicating the bleachers behind him, where Eddie can now spot a gaggle of yearbook nerds are sitting in – Stan included, plopped right next to Bill, who is watching the interaction with wide, giddy eyes. “Anyway, long story short is that Stan is kind of annoyed with me, I think, but he’s super cool, and you’re super cool, and Bill is friends with both of you, so why can’t I, you know?”

            “I don’t think you can really say I’m cool based on the very little interactions we’ve had,” Eddie informs Richie with faux sorrow, though he has to admit, he is kind of thrilled about this little turn of events. Honestly, when he had woken up the morning after the party and discovered that Richie had vanished overnight, he had been a bit disappointed, because the guy was stupidly nice even when he was insanely drunk, and Eddie kind of wanted to see how they got along while sober. Bill had sworn up and down that Richie had left, according to the typo-riddled explanation that had been texted to Bill at six that morning, because Maggie had managed to wake him up with a spam of calls and texts, and not because of whatever anxiety-induced reason Eddie’s brain had tried to come up with.

            So, a nice little surprise, an entire six days after that mess of a party, and Richie seems quite happy with Eddie’s response as he says, “I can say you’re cool because I’m cool. Pretty sure that’s how it works.”

            Eddie clicks his tongue, hopes this won’t come across negatively, and points out, “No offense, but you don’t seem all that cool. Just… damaged. Nice, yeah, but damaged. Like, the whole…” he gestures vaguely at Richie, as if that properly explains what he means, then tries to clarify, “You’re face, when you first got here. I mean, I’m not involved in the town gossip, but even I heard whispers about how Nurse Tozier disappeared and came back weeks later with her beaten to hell child in tow. Plus, I remember seeing it, all the little cuts and bruises on your face, whenever we passed each other in the hall and shit. Correct me if I’m wrong, but all that definitely implies some form of damaged.”

            Thankfully, Richie only falters slightly at that word, tilts his head in consideration, and then decidedly tells Eddie, “Damage is nothing more than a little dent on a perfectly good car. And I think it’s fair to assume that there’s more reason behind Stan’s little grudge against you than just some playground punch outs from middle school, so don’t dig into my damage unless you want to dig into yours.”

            “Does that mean there won’t be any nail painting and secret spilling?” Eddie pouts, but it doesn’t really stay put, his lips twitching up against his will and breaking the illusion that he’s trying to put on.

            Richie grins, lifting a hand and spinning it around to flash his nails at Eddie, which are coated in a dark green nail polish that almost looks black under certain lighting. Quirking a brow, he says, “Nail painting and secret spilling are definitely on the table.” Lowering his hand, he pauses, and his grin slips a little, and there’s a weird little flash of something serious in his gaze, and suddenly Eddie remembers that Richie had been red-faced and tear-stained at the party, but he doesn’t get to dwell on that memory for long as Richie goes on to tell him, “I mean it, though. I’m not… I’m not stupid, I know that Bill and Stan are both working their asses off trying to get me to open up about shit, and I’m not against it, but if… if we do become friends, like Bill wants us to, and if you ever want to dig into that shit, just… don’t expect me to answer your questions without answering some of mine, because I can’t talk to people that won’t trust me but expect me to trust them, you know?”

            Holding up his hands in some kind of surrender, only just now realizing that he still has his gloves on and everything, he quickly assures, “Digging for secrets isn’t exactly my hobby. I’m curious by nature, but I’m not nosy. If you don’t want me digging, I’m not gonna dig. Just that simple.”

            Apparently satisfied by that, Richie nods once, the action a little curt, and squints at Eddie curiously, propping his elbow against the top of the half-wall separating them and resting his chin against his palm. “Step one on our little friendship quest,” he says, “I have no fucking clue how hockey works. Like, I’ve been to a few practices to help with getting pictures and shit, and I’m even helping write the article about the team that’s getting put in the school paper in a couple weeks, but no matter how much anyone tries to explain it to me, I’m fucking lost. I just- I don’t get it.”

            “It can be kinda confusing,” Eddie shrugs, not very bothered by that. Most people don’t really understand how hockey really works, and he’s pretty much used to being asked questions on the basic functions of the game. “Tell you what, though—” he points at Richie, just in time to hear the coach call his name behind him, “—if you’re serious about this, if you’re not fucking around or trying to make Bill happy or some stupid shit, then I’ll sit your ass down and try my best to explain it to you in a way you’ll understand. I would do it now, but I gotta get back on the ice.” Holding out a hand, Eddie quirks a brow and offers a grin. “Are you busy tomorrow, after school? Bill and I were planning on going to that dinky little diner over past Bassey Park, and Bill knows just as much about hockey as I do, so between the two of us trying to explain it, something we say is bound to stick in that head of yours.”

            “Not sure how excited I am about the term _dinky little diner,”_ Richie muses, reaching forward and taking Eddie’s hand in his own to shake it, “but I’ll be there as long as someone buys me a shake.”

            Eddie hums, releasing Richie’s hand and taking a step back as coach calls for him a second time. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t turn around or even really acknowledge that his name is being called in the first place, but he does reach over and swipe his helmet and stick up from the bench before offering Richie a shit-eating grin and pointing out, “I didn’t officially ask if you wanted to come.”

            “The question was implied,” Richie shrugs.

            Behind him, coach lets out a sigh, clearly aggravated by Eddie taking his damn time, but doesn’t bother calling for him again, able to see that he’s on his feet and will be on the ice in a moment. “If you can tell me one basic fact about the rules of hockey by tomorrow, I’ll buy you a shake,” Eddie says after a moment of consideration, pulling his helmet over his head and stepping back onto the ice with ease. He cocks a brow, though he isn’t sure how well Richie can see it, and tells him, “If you can’t do that, then you’re stuck paying for yourself. My only rule is that you can’t ask anything else for a fact, you have to actually look into it and find something yourself. Do we have a deal?”

            Richie purses his lips in thought, gaze trailing up to the ceiling for a moment before returning to Eddie with a funny little glimmer in his eyes. “Okay, sure,” he agrees with a nod. “We have a deal.”

**Author's Note:**

> lemme know what u think!!
> 
> tumblr: lo-v-ers  
> twitter: lo_v_ers
> 
> —
> 
> just in case the link to the playlist doesn’t work, here’s the actual full link so u can copy and paste it if u want to:
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/user/httpariona/playlist/4XfPIrmTM8ICYI3yLXvklB?si=ym09pjJjSWWDNvRDHOyAPQ


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